Lisa Zaran

Goodbye's Can Be Beautiful

Or not.

Here is my heart, here is my democracy,
and here is my conciliatory sorry.

I’m forever sorry.  I can think
of no other way to feel.

When I die, when I am remembered
no more, when the flowers I loved

no longer bloom

like ravenous angels longing
to be kissed, slowly curtailing,

lounging actually as flowers
tend to do

in bright sunlight and brave weather

yet slowly shriveling into nothing
petals flailing in the breeze

I can’t help but think

of a mothers broom sweeping
to the sound of guidance

each blossom away.

 
© 2014 Lisa Zaran

Slaves

The world we surrender to is not
the world we endure, more over, 
is not the world we imagined wearing
in the picture of our mind nor the emergence
we feel every waking minute, nor the riot that runs
circles like children with questions all about our constitutional
selves.  

Sometimes it takes a brush stroke by a spiritual hand
to remind us that a certain part fits a certain part 
and it’s up to us to figure each part out.  To delineate, discern
perhaps, if we want to go all William Carlos Williams,
or in better terms:  to winter it out.

Tomorrow will bring a daylight we wish would be dark.
Every question we have will be a rusted can on the ground.
Every dream will feel different, immortal even.
We will breathe and the sound will be a scuddering sound.
We will cry and nobody will play a drumroll.
 
We will map our countless endeavors, 
start over and mark again.  We will eat our dark bread
and remember.  We will be kind.  We will buy shoes
that match our competitors.  And we will love.
And deep as biology will allow it, we will understand love.
 

© 2014 Lisa Zaran

Freedom

Just as a dandelion that blooms out of spite as much as
out of a desire to grieve in public, such expression
it holds in its moment, so will we.  And a poem 
will be created based on this.  And a song will be written
and sung and a voice will rise up like a fist from a throat
and a story will wet the hearts of children everywhere.

Our fathers and forefathers and fathers of them may turn
in their graves with the urgency of our words, our temptations,
they will call it:  the floating chaffs of our minds,
but we will know better.  We will walk unencumbered.
We will forget what it means to apologize.

 
© 2014 Lisa Zaran

A Little Poetry

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